(Male, Middle-Aged) My wife and I had just gotten into town, a small town with what appeared to be only one stop light and one main intersection. We arrived by train I believe because we exited a large brick station. I was wearing a black suit and black gloves and the only luggage I was carrying was my laptop from work which is in a black satchel. My wife is also dressed somberly. As we start to cross the road, a fancy old-style hearse turns the corner and heads toward us. It’s blaring a siren and flashing its lights which is pretty strange. Where would a hearse have to go in a hurry? We stop and let it pass. I am very tired, maybe from the journey, maybe from exhaustion or hunger. I am fighting to keep from passing out. My wife keeps telling me “It’s just a little way further.”

…They’re walking along, all in black, half like a mob and half like a parade of mourners…

Just as we are nearly across the road, I notice a whole family of people turning the corner where the hearse came from. There’s an older man and woman and their four full grown children and probably a half dozen other people. They’re walking along, all in black, half like a mob and half like a parade of mourners. The mother in particular is highly distraught and cries very loudly into a hankerchief. She keeps choking like she’s trying to stop crying. I recognize the family once they get closer. They must be arriving for this same funeral. They’re friends and normally I’d want to talk with them but in this dream I was filled with panic. I just wanted to get to my hotel room or where ever I was going and close my eyes. The fear of talking with them made me try to escape but I was horribly dizzy. They kept gaining on me and my wife but at last we entered the building where we were heading to. I felt worse and worse with every step, a little like my head was emptying, like my brains were just evaporating and pouring out my ears. Despite these disturbing sensations, I knew I had to hold onto my brief case because I had to do work while I was vacationing at this funeral. My wife was quite a ways ahead of me by now. She opened a door and held it open for me though I realized I would never make it that far.

At just about that moment, I figured out that I was arriving at my own funeral.

(Male) This wasn’t as much a nightmare as just a strange, strange dream despite its subject matter. I was attending my own funeral. It was being held in this little rural chapel, one maybe 20′ by 20′ in dimensions. The walls were bright white, the pews too, even my coffin was white. Bright summer sunlight gleamed in the windows. There was a crowd of maybe two dozen people and everyone was milling around acting so happy. I was milling through the crowd too and people were shaking my hand, smiling, as if they were congratulating me. I think some people were even smoking cigars, like I had had a baby or something. There was also a large sheet cake with a thick layer of that sugary white frosting usually found on wedding cakes. I was cutting it into pieces and handing it out to people when I realized that this wouldn’t be a very good lunch. I left the funeral and went to a small diner next door and ordered up a gallon of soup and some sandwiches to go. When it came time to pay, I seemed to have coupons in my wallet for a free gallon of soup and a free box of sandwiches which meant that all I had to pay was the tax. As I was leaving, I invited the guy behind the counter to come to my funeral, that we’d have plenty of cake.

Up until yesterday, everything I knew about grave robbing I learned from The Bodysnatcher (1945) http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0037549/ (an enjoyable thriller that was the last movie to feature both Karloff and Lugosi)Then I read Scott Carney’s work on the Bone Trade from India.

Scott Carney’s Blog

His piece in Wired

His piece on NPR

The guy really did his research, from the bizarrely fascinating process used to create world-class medical skeletons, to the (post)colonial economics of the business to the laws that supposedly limit the trade today. He wore out shoe leather, knocked on doors and saw and touched stuff that I suppose I’d rather not see or touch. This is journalism at its best, vital but not lurid though slightly off-beat, focused on the humans involved. The centuries old traffic in human skeletons was finally banned in India after one dealer started selling child skeletons in great quantities, quantities that could only have been acquired by murder. Understandably, folks got upset, VERY upset even attacking foreigners suspected of being involved. But wouldn’t the existing laws against murder have been enough to address this problem? Was it primarily people from the other castes upset at the financial boon?

What the reaction suggests to me is an underlying set of values and fears related to human remains. If I understand correctly, Hinduism considers dead bodies to be unclean, hence their disposal is relegated to the lowest castes. Christianity by contrast with its insistence on some form of bodily resurrection has tended to nearly venerate human remains, lest there not be enough “left” to be resurrected. (I have heard that the decay of remains is enough of a theological problem that at least one sect determined the minimum requirements for bodily resurrection were that the skull and both femurs be in tact. Allegedly, this determination somehow related to the skull and crossed bones of pirate and Masonic symbology.) Bones are also used, I think, by some forms of Buddhism to indicate the transient, illusory essence of reality. But the contrasting value system posed in these articles is the enlightened practices of Western medicine and education. And of course, good old fashioned economic value. The black market nature of this economy has helped prices rise greatly.

The final thing that I was left wondering about was how many folks die in India during any given year. It surely has to be enough to supply all the medical schools that want them, doesn’t it? Perhaps I’m naive as to the real scope of this market. The industry also sounds like a mature one, where a fully manufactured product is exported, in contrast to a more colonial system where raw materials are exported to be refined in foreign factories with the products re-imported. The only way the ban makes secular sense to me is if India wants to stock its medical schools first before supplying the rest of the world.

Anything that can spark such trains of thought is definitely worth reading, especially you’re intrigued by the idea of grave robbing.

(Male, middle aged)

the tilted mirror turned my gaze upward, inward.
my skullcap was discolored skin, scalded
freckled with scab-crusted sores.

how long had I been bald? A shameless
scalp naked to the sun’s corroding rays
too preoccupied to notice my corruption?

(Male, 30’s) The other night I dreamt about a doll, maybe 18 inches tall with the proportions of a baby. It was heavy for a toy and the surface of it’s skin felt like dirt, like soil with a high content of clay. The doll fell like it could have been made out of earth but it was solid like a like any other doll. It’s face was a cheery smile but it’s color, both of its fleshtone and its clothes were ashen grey. It was a doll that somehow represented death. Maybe it actually was death.

Its clothing was distinctive as well. Grey corduroy over-alls with a small satchel that it carried around its neck. The satchel represented a traditional item worn my people in my family (in the dream) an item that we received when we joined the family. The satchel is supposed to contain a few handfuls of seeds, some special variety of grain that the family had perfected over the centuries, I think it was a kind of rye that grows in particularly rocky terrain at particularly high altitudes. (I should mention that I don’t really come from such a family!) I think the idea here was that if you had that satchel, you’d never go hungry because you could always grow your crops again.

But the doll was dead. Somehow it had been allowed to die, as if dolls can die. I looked into the satchel and it only had lint and a few hardened clumps of something. There didn’t appear to be any seeds left.

(Male) I had this one just last night. I woke up with tears in my eyes.

Two of my friends came along with me as I stopped at a funeral parlor for some errand. We went into a moderately large room where the funeral director was. He said my friends could look around while we did business and he told me to sit down. My friends looked at one of the coffins but it already had someone in it. They joked with the director “You do good work” which was a joke because the guy in the coffin was horribly burned on one side of his face. The director explained “He was in a terrible car crash.”

The director got down to business with me. “Have you considered the funeral?”

“Oh, yes I consider them very important. It’s like my chance to say good bye to everyone. And I’d like to plan it in more detail but not now of course.

“Of course.” He replied.

“I mean there’ll be plenty of time for that.”

He had wheeled over a tray with many things on it. “How do you see yourself?” (by which I took him to mean how did I want to appear at the funeral.) I told him I didn’t know. He said sometimes it helps people to look at themselves in a reflection. He handed me something that looked like a stainless steel crow bar, polished to a great shine. “Look at yourself in that.”

I did but the reflection was distorted. I held it close up to my face to get a better look. Then I started to cry. “Take it away. Take it away! It’s a trochor. It’s what you use to… Get it away from me.” The funeral director didn’t want to make me upset but he called his assistant to talk to me. By the time she appeared I had stood up and was near the doors. She put her arms out and grabbed me by the shoulders. “You don’t understand,” she said “You have to stay here now.” She was treating me like I was dead. I didn’t know why my friends hadn’t come to my aid during my struggle but they couldn’t seem to hear me. I pretended to go along with the assistant, hoping she would take her hands off me long enough for me to make a run for the door. But soon two other assistants arrived, large bouncer-types in black suits. One of them had a large heavy metallic circle they were going use to weight down my legs. I stood up and started wrestling with them. I lost any sense of dignity and I cried and I begged like a child. I thought it was interesting how I was starting life and ending it as crying infant. I tried to bargain. I tried everything. I didn’t want to be dead.